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Corner  Book 


PROFILES 

Arthur  Ketchum 


BOSTON 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE  GORHAM  PRESS 


Copyright  1916,  by  Richard  G.  Badger 
All  rights  reserved 


The  author  wishes  to  thank  the  Editors  of 
The  Atlantic  Monthly,  Harper's  Magazine,  Every- 
body's Magazine,  The  Forum,  Smart  Set,  A  ins  lee's, 
and  The  International  for  their  courteous  permis- 
sion to  republish  several  of  these  verses. 


The  Gorham  Press,  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


AD  MATREM 
November,   1915 


M191984 


CONTENTS 

En  Passant 9 

The  Garden 9 

Old  Apple  Trees 10 

The  Fire io 

Arabesques 1 1 

Tide  Rock 12 

Succory 12 

Sweet-Bay 13 

Shadow 13 

Talisman 14 

The  Mother 14 

Across  the  Marsh 15 

Music  at  Night 15 

For  Remembrance 16 

The  Head-Land 17 

Moonrise 18 

Wings 18 

The  Intruder , .  19 

The  Flower 19 

That  Day 20 

The  Name 20 

Her  Anger 21 

Nightingales  in  Exile 22 

War 23 

Interned 23 

The  Kite 24 

Escape 24 

Interlude 25 

FROM  A  SPANISH  SKETCH  BOOK 

The  Road  to  Granada 27 

Romance 27 

Chapel  Royal 28 

Seville 29 

Padre 29 

Lola 30 

Dolores 30 

Traveller's  Joy 31 


THE  MOUNTAIN 

Ascent 32 

Summit 33 

Dark 34 

The  Song  of  the  Canoe 35 

In  the  Highlands 37 

Upland  Acres 38 

The  Rain 39 

The  Lost  Trail 40 

Shadow  Time : 41 

Roadside  Rest 42 

The  Scent  O9  Pine 43 

The  Thrush 44 

In  the  Arena 45 

A  Street  Cry 46 

The  Gleam 47 

Come  Buy 48 

Even-Songs 49 

Captives 50 

Rencontre 50 

Fog  in  the  City 51 

Street  Song 51 

Decoration  Day 52 

The  Sea  Wind 53 

Trees  in  the  Park 54 

Paraclete 54 

Alle  Seelen 55 

Eroica 56 

Knighted 57 

The  Secret  Children 58 

Day's  End 59 

Pipes  of  Pan .- 60 

An  Old  Song 61 

The  Happy  Spirit 62 

The  Blue  Divide 62 

To-Morrow 63 

The  Weaver 63 

Postscript 64 


APOLOGIA 

What  will  they  be  to  you, 

My  little  carven  words? 
My  Treasure  of  deep  seas! 

My  Dust  of  Kings! 
My  Wonderful! 

Set  in  the  straight  rows, 
Line  by  line, 

Dull  changelings  all! — 
They  do  not  tell  you  anything; 

They  will  not  shine  or  sing; 
And  you  will  read, 

Not  see  and  hear. 
If  you  found  upon  your  garden  path 

The  fragile  shards  of  an  egg  shell 
Would  that  give  you  the  bird? 

Or  when  the  wind 
Scatters  before  your  feet 

The  white  petals  of  a  shaken  rose, 
Can  you  reconstruct  the  flower  1 

A  blossom  broken  in  the  wind, 
A  crushed  shell, 

What  have  they  to  do 
With  rapture  of  song  and  flight 

With  color  and  fragrance 
And  life? 


EN   PASSANT 

It  is  white 

As  the  heart  of  a  sun-bleached  shell, 
The  little  room, 

And  when  at  night  the  lamp  is  lit 
It  glows  like  a  flower; 

It  is  then  I  like  it  best, 
Looking  in  as  I  pass  through  the  rain : 

The  white  walls, 
The  table  and  the  chairs, 

The  little  print  above  the  chimney  piece: 
One  would  grow  quiet  here  I  think, 

And  dream  sweet  thoughts 
And  face  old  age  and  death 

With  courage  undismayed. 


THE  GARDEN 

All  the  repressed  years,  all  the  meager  days, 

All  the  denials,  all  the  frustrate  joys, 
The  frosted  loves,  the  unreckoned  dreams, 

They  have  been  gathered  like  a  harvest, 
Their  color  and  their  fragrance 

All  distilled 
And  pour'd  upon  this  ground 

Like  wine. 
O  holly-hocks,  rose  and  ruby, 

Lupin  and  larkspur,  sea-blue,  calm  as  the 

sky, 
Scarlet  sage  and  golden  nameless  things, 

Do  ye  know  the  vats  that  bred  you  ? 
Or  what  vintage  ye  are  of? 


OLD  APPLE  TREES 

I  like  the  gnarled  apple  trees 

And  the  worn  low  house: 
They  have  grown  old  together 

And  like  understanding  friends, 
Beyond  necessity  of  speech, 

They  keep  a  happy  silence. 
Even  in  blossom  time 

They  are  not  young; 
The  pink  and  white 

On  the  old  boughs 
Is  only  afterglow; 

And  the  lilies 
By  the  sagging  gate 

— Lavender  among  lush  leaves — 
Are  like  the  pattern 

On  old  plates, 
The  treasure  of  spice  scented  cupboards 

With  white  doors. 


THE  FIRE 

Here  at  the  margin  of  the  twilit  earth 

I  heap  the  wood,  clean  with  the  sea 
And  dried  with  many  suns, 

And  kindle  the  valiant  flame, 
Undaunted  by  the  darkness  of  two  worlds. 

O,  brave  its  little  challenge  to  the  stars  !- 
Fearless  it  laughs  above  the  sheer  abyss, 

A  shining  kinship  to  all  suns  that  are: 
As  though  a  soul  enkindled  by  the  Spark, 

Unquenched  by  darkness, 
Undismayed  by  space, 

Should  flame  its  Credo  to  Infinity. 


10 


ARABESQUES 

When  there  is  no  sun 

And  the  morning  is  heavy  with  rain, 
The  sea  seems  like  burnished  steel, 

And  the  sails, 
Far  off  and  faint, 

Like  the  worn  arabesques 
Of  a  rune 

On  an  ancient  battle  shield. 

II 

I  heard  the  rain  on  the  roof, : 

Like  idle  fingers  it  seemed 
Thrumming  a  formless  tune: 

Without  sequence, 
Without  beginning  or  change 

Or  end: 
And  I  thought  what  if  the  tune  took  shape 

And  fell  into  rhythm 
And  sang: 

Could  men  listen 
And  not  go  mad  ? 

Ill 

Over  the  hill, 

Hand-like  a  cloud  reached  up, 
And  grasped  the  sun; 

(Did  God  forgetful  let  it  slip  so  low?) 
And  then  it  seemed  the  greedy  fingers 

Dripped  with  gold, 
That  spattered  down  the  sky. 


II 


TIDE   ROCK 

The  other  rocks  crouch  huddled  up  the  shore 

Bleached  in  the  sun  and  safe, 
And  bare  and  dead; 

But  one  has  dared 
To  creep  down  to  the  tide-line 

And  to  take 
The  buffet  of  each  idle  wave 

Upon  its  patient  cheek, 
And  to  be  drowned,  deserted, 

And  then  buffeted  again. 
See  how  the  sea-weed 

Has  begun  to  twist  itself  upon  it 
Like  a  crown. 


SUCCORY 

Flower  that  brings  the  color 

Of  the  sea 
To  the  sad  need  of  vacant  city  lots 

Parched  in  the  sun; 
Flower  that  is  the  joy  of  wistful 

Prison'd  folk;      . 
Herb  of  grace, 

What  do  you  here 
Along  the  harbor  wall, 

Where  the  white  shingle 
Dips  like  a  bosom 

For  the  weary  sea? 


12 


SWEET-BAY 

In  the  sun-smitten  field 

Arid  and  parched 
The  grass  is  almost  white 

As  bones  bleached 
And  dry  on  the  sand. 

All  the  long  day  the  heat 
Drugs  it  to  silence: 

But  see  how  the  sweet-bay 
Makes  a  pool, 

So  green,  so  dark, 
That  one  peering  into  it 

Might  see  his  face 
Reflected  far  down, 

Like  a  leaf  floating  on  still  water. 


SHADOW 

Of  a  sudden  all  the  light  grew  old : 

And  the  sun 
Like  a  weary  and  spent  flame 

Paled  in  the  wan  blue. 

The    very    trees    shivered    and    drew    their 
branches  close, 

And  here  on  the  roadside 
The  flowers  stared 

With  haggard  eyes. 
Was  it  then  that  some  one 

In  a  little  white  house  at  the  foot  of 

the  hill 
Pulled  down  a  shade 

And  said  'He  is  dead'? 


TALISMAN 

I  will  take  the  azure  of  the  sea  today 

And  lay  it  on  my  soul 
Like  a  patina; 

And  over  its  blue, 
Spread  the  shadow  of  the  green 

On  this  sun  filled  head-land: 
And  the  faint  lilac  of  the  fluted  wave, 

And  of  the  little  shadows  of  the  sand : 
And  they  shall  merge  and  mingle, 

Melt  and  fuse, 
Until  they  are  a  jewel 

God  will  lock  away, 
Too  beautiful  for  earthly  wear. 


THE  MOTHER 

On  the  dim  beach, 

Watching  the  sea, 
I  saw  a  woman  stand  with  blowing  skirts, 

A  child  beside  her. 
The  waves  came  almost  to  their  feet: 

And  hissed  and  gleamed 
Like  some  white-fanged  and  hungry  beast, 

Some  beautiful  untamed  and  fatal  thing. 
And  when  the  child  leaned  down  and  laughed 

The  woman  caught  her  up 
And  crushed  her  close, 

And  sped  across  the  gray  sands 
To  a  lighted  door. 


ACROSS  THE  MARSH 

When  the  heat  spins  a  veil 

Over  the  face  of  the  noon, 
Then  the  gray  little  town 

Across  the  marshland, 
And  the  harbor  arm 

Above  its  empty  wharves 
And  idle  masts, 

Grows  faint  and  tenuous, 
Spectral  and  dim, 

Like  a  picture 
Fading  on  a  wall 

Of  a  forgotten  room. 


MUSIC  AT  NIGHT 

It  is  as  though  you  opened  your  window 

And  threw  into  the  night 
Handfulls  of  diamonds, 

Hard,  shining  little  stones 
That  fell 

Like  pebbles  under  my  feet; 
Or  scattered  in  the  warm  dusk 

Rose  petals, 
Crimson  and  white, 

Scented  and  cool, 
Soft  as  rain; 

When  I  pass  your  house 
And  hear  you  playing. 


FOR  REMEMBRANCE 

The  gasping  marsh  forsaken  by  the  tide 

Remembers  still  the  sea; 
All  lover-like  he  came 

And  laid  a  spent  and  weary  cheek 
Upon  her  waiting  breast, 

A  brief  and  blessed  hour, 
As  for  her  comforting. 

Look  where  the  sea  once  laid  his  lips 
Blue  of  his  blue  and  gray  as  tears, 

The  flower  of  remembrance, 
Rosemary. 


16 


THE  HEAD-LAND 

The  head-land  is  a  Sphinx, 

And  to  her  feet 
Creep  all  the  legions  of  the  sea, 

Each  with  his  question, 
Asked  and  asked  again 

But  still  unanswered. 
Ah,  the  cry, 

The  protest 
Of  each  baffled  wave 

That  still  must  ask  and  be  denied! 
Some  day,  her  granite  lips 

Will  speak; 
And  then  the  sea  will  come  no  more 

To  cry  before  her  carven  feet, 
And  she  will  crumble  like  a  ruined  shrine 

Deserted; 
Since  she  has  spoken 

And  a  Sphinx  no  more. 


MOONRISE 

It  is  white  and  shadowless 

As  a  pearl, 
The  moon  tonight; 

It  leans  upon  us 
Like  a  watching  face, 

White,  white! 
It  will  not  soften  into  tears, 

Or  flush,  or  change, 
For  all  it  sees; 

The  pity  was  washed  out  of  it 
When  it  grew  wise  and  white 

And  dead. 


WINGS 

Moth  wings  fluttering  in  the  dusk 

Soft  and  blind, 
So  futile,  yet  so  sure. 

I  watch  you  wondering, 
Shall  I  pity  you  ? 

Little  ships  that  drift 
Without  lights 

And  rudderless; 
Or  envy  you 

As  something  winged  and  free? 
Is  it  flight 

Or — escape  ? 
Little  wings 

In  the  dusk! 


18 


THE  INTRUDER 

Here  in  this  little  room 

The  lamps  are  lit; 
And  the  fire 

Is  like  a  red  lily 
In  a  dark  bowl; 

It  is  so  bright,  so  still,  so  safe, 
One  lays  aside  the  last  defence 

And  the  sword 
Is  sheathed! 

I  will  turn  the  pages  of  old  dreams 
Like  a  book  of  forgotten  songs — 

Why  should  the  moonlight 
Like  a  spent  wave 

Lie  white  upon  the  threshold 
Of  my  open  door? 


THE  FLOWER 

There  is  a  garden  eastward 

Where  each  day 
A  mighty  flower  blooms  and  blows; 

Petal  by  petal, 
Opening  its  golden  heart. 

And  then  it  pales 
And  fades 

Until  at  last 
A  hand  out  reaches  from  the  west 

And  gathers  it. 


THAT  DAY 

That  day  there  were  two  paths  to  choose; 

I  took  the  little  one 
That  led  through  pastures  sweet  with  bay 

And  cedar  trees 
And  up  a  sudden  hill-side 

To  the  sea 
That  closed  upon  it  like  a  door  of  space 

And  ended  it. 
But  you  that  kept  the  road 

So  shadowless,  so  straight, 
Have  found  the  little  towns 

Thick  set  with  trees, 
The  farm  lands  rich  with  toil, 

The  towered  city, 
Shining  like  a  dream; 

And  still 
The  road  leads  on. 


THE  NAME 

Over  and  over  all  day  long 

I  say  your  name; 
And  wrap  it  up 

In  little  tender  words 
I  never  heard  or  learned, 

But  know. 
Over  and  over  all  day  long! 

Until  my  heart  is  sweet, 
Like  some  dim  room 

Where  flowers  have  been. 


20 


HER  ANGER 

Her  anger  is  an  east  wind, 

Thunderous 
With  storms  unspent, 

Clouding  the  day! 
Portentous 

Frought  with  fate: 
But  oh,  her  scorn  1 

Clear  lightning 
Riving  the  gloom! 

West  wind  keen  and  cold, 
Cleansing  and  making  whole 

With  promise  of  a  star 
White  in  the  twilight  sky. 


21 


NIGHTINGALES   IN  EXILE 

In  alien  woods  tonight 

The  brown  birds 
Sing: 

Out  of  wrecked  gardens, 
Desecrated  fields , 

Sanctuaries 
For  ever  spoiled, 

(What  songs  are  yours,  0  torn  and 

bleeding  world 
Of  ancient  quiet  and  old  peace  ?) 

They  come; 
To  sing  the  silver  back 

To  foreign  stars 
And  bring  the  English  night 

Forgotten  sweetness, 
Pledge 

Of  that  eternal  beauty, 
Triumphing  still, 

And  past  the  reach 
Of  wars. 


22 


WAR 

Wings  that  darken  the  morning, 

Clouding  the  blue, 
Vultures  that  hover 

Imminent,  greedy,  sure, 
Grim  harvesters, 

Who  can  escape  you  ? 
The  air  is  poisoned  with  smoke 

Of  far-off  battles. 
The  guilty  earth: — 

O  mother  spoiled  and  betrayed! 
Spawns  a  horrible  breed: 

The  dew  of  its  birth 
Is  blood. 


INTERNED 

All  the  long  day,  here  in  this  little  room 

With  its  white  walls  and  window  open  to  the  sky, 

I  lie  and  watch  the  hours  go  by  me, 

One  by  one! 

They  are  like  birds,  the  passing  slow  winged  hours, 
Birds  in  an  endless  flight, 
And  each  one  with  a  cry. 
It  is  not  bells  I  hear  from  out  some  city  tower, 

It  is  a  cry — silver  and  soft  and  glad — 

Of  something  free! 
All  the  long  day  I  watch  the  hours'  flight 

And  when  the  dark  comes  and  I  cannot  see, 
I  have  the  sense  of  wings;  I  hear 

The  cry! 


THE   KITE 

I  watched  a  boy  with  a  kite, 

(It  was  red  as  a  tulip 
And  sky  and  sea  were  blue). 

At  first  it  seemed  to  hesitate 
As  though  afraid, 

And   then   gaining   courage   by   a   little 

flight 
It  took  the  wind  and  soared. 

.Up,  up, 
Like  something  free, 

Dipping,  veering, 
Drifting, 

And  up  again 
Until  it  found 

The  cord. 
Free  yet  tied! 

Better  to  lie  with  untried  wings 
Then  come  so  near  to  freedom 

And  a  cord. 


ESCAPE 

I  said  I  would  have  done  with  thoughts, 

And  names  and  labels. 
This  shall  be  no  more  a  tree, 

Or  that  a  flower, 
Or  colors,  green  and  blue  and  red, 

Or  love,  or  hate  or  joy: 
For  I  am  sick  with  the  disease  of  thought 

And  its  delirium,  imagination. 
But  laying  my  lips  to  the  Great  Cup, 

I  will  drink  deep  of  beauty, 
Wordless,  colorless,  without  name  or  thought. 

And  I  shall  be  whole. 


24 


INTERLUDE 

You  that  blame  the  singing 

With  the  ready  tongue. 
Could  you  hear  the  ringing 

Of  the  songs  unsung. 
All  the  surge  and  splendor, 

Joy  and  lyric  pain, 
Would  you  change,  I  wonder, 

Blame  to  praise  again? 
So  when  men  benighted 

In  some  marshy  place 
Feel  with  eyes  unsighted, 

Fresh  wind  on  their  face 
Long  sought  and  denied  them, 

Guess  how  near  may  be 
In  the  dark  beside  them. 

All  the  waiting  sea. 


25 


FROM  A  SPANISH  SKETCH  BOOK 

THE    ROAD    TO    GRANADA 

All  day,  the  burning  furnace  of  the  plain; 

Bare  mountains  white  with  sun — the  distances 
Breathless,  unbroken,  save  where  olive  trees 

Spent  their  scant  shade  and  weary  fields   of 

grain 
Ebbed  in  the  heat  like  an  enchanted  main 

On  the  wrapt  shores  of  some  Hesperides. 
Still  little  towns — as  sun  besieged  as  these, 

A  hill-top  tower  glimpsed  and  lost  again — 
Who  guessed  this  wonder  at  the  journey's  close? 

The  shining  towers,  the  leafy  long  Ravine, 
Shadows  and  murmuring  water  everywhere! 

Above,  Sierra  with  its  crown  of  snow — 
And,  midway-set,  in  gardens,  hung  in  air, 

Alhambra,  throned  and  lovely  like  a  queen! 

ROMANCE 

(Patio  de  Daraxa.     Alhambra) 

The  pomegranate's  boughs  are  astir, 

Where  the  scarlet  blossoms  blow, 
Is  it  the  voice  of  awakened  bird? 

Or  the  lingering  ghost  of  a  broken  word 
Said  long  and  long  ago? 

For  the  moon  lies  white  on  the  court, 

And  the  shadows  are  thick  between 
The  columns  of  the  dim  arcade, 

The  wizard  Moorish  builders  made 
For  a  forgotten  Queen. 


27 


This  was  the  place  she  sought 

Weary  of  song  and  light, 
Where  the  wind  moved  soft  as  a  prayer 

And  the  fountain  swayed  in  the  scented  air 
Like  a  white  flower  of  the  night. 

And  here  where  the  starry  dark 

Wrought  magic  and  mysteries, 
Who  knew  if  a  proud  Queen  stormed  and  wept, 

There  in  the  palace  that  reveled  or  slept, 
Behind  the  lattices? 

The  night  is  astir  with  its  dream; 

The  moon  is  on  tower  and  wall — 
Hush!  in  the  shadow  something  stirred! 

A  bough  bent  by  a  restless  bird? 
Or  the  sound  of  a  light  foot-fall  ? 

CHAPEL  ROYAL 

Granada 

Men  have  seen  visions  in  this  reverend  place, 

And  walked  here  softly  as  on  holy  ground — 
Here  the  carved  angels  thrilled  to  hear  the  sound 

Of  alleluias,  like  a  storm  of  grace 
Beating  upon  these  heights  of  dusky  space! 

Proud  knees  have  bent  here — Kingly  heads  and 

crowned 
Bowed  here  adoring.     Royalty  hath  found 

Itself  made  humble  by  this  thorn-browed  Face! 
Here  sleeps  the  dust  of  unremembered  dead, 

Under  their  banners'  fading  blazonry: 
Old  wars  have  hushed  here — valiant  swords  found 
rest; 

Here  Pomp  grown  weary  in  a  Kingdom's  stead 
Under  the  wings  of  peace,  sleeps  quietly — , 

A  tired  child  upon  a  mother's  breast! 

28 


SEVILLE 

A  city  of  the  flowers  by  day, 

In  booth  and  stall: 
Along  her  streets — in  place  and  square 

Are  flowers,  flowers,  everywhere, 
And  over  all. 

A  city  of  the  flowers  by  night: 

What  other  name — 
For  these  long  garlands  down  her  streets 

That  every  river  bank  repeats 
But  flowers  of  flame? 


PADRE 

No  pallid  ecstasies  for  such! 

Those  lips  have  laughed  too  long  and  much 
To  linger  long  in  wistful  prayer; 

He  has  the  eager  ready  air 
Of  one  who  finds  today  too  sweet 

To  lose  a  moment — all  replete 
With  pleasure,  to  the  very  brim 

Life  holds  a  winking  cup  to  him. 
Priest?     Yes;  but  one  would  surmise 

Vowed  to  some  Bacchic  sacrifice, 
Look  closer  at  the  crisping  hair! 

Find  you  no  hint  of  vine  leaves  there? 


29 


LOLA 

To-day  is  festa — Lola  piles  her  hair 

Into  a  dusky  tower,  then  with  care, 
Adjusts  the  comb — and  deftly  puts  a  rose 

Just  at  the  place  where  it  best  shows 
Under  the  white  mantilla;  now — the  shawl, 

Deep  fringed  and  embroidered,  made  to  fall 
In  soft  folds  almost  to  her  slippered  feet. 

Lastly  her  fan!     She's  ready  for  the  street! 
Insolent,  radiant,  like  a  brilliant  flower, 

Lola  will  glow  her  brief  pathetic  hour 
Then  grow  old  suddenly  and  fade  away 

Into  obscurity — that's  the  Spanish  way. 


DOLORES 

Withered  incredibly, — bent,  toothless,  spare, 

Crowlike — you  mark  her  hovering  there! 
Choosing  a  posy  at  the  flower-stall, 

Lean  shoulders  dragging  in  her  rusty  shawl,- 
Paying  her  grudging  penny  for  a  rose! 

That  is  Dolores!  you  would  not  suppose 
That  men  have  loved  her,  fought  for  her — her 
name 

Whispered  by  women — like  a  word  of  shame, 
This  battered  thing  the  market  girls  despise; 

There's  nothing  live  about  her — but  her  eyes. 


TRAVELLER'S  JOY 

The  hills  near  by  were  golden, 
The  far-off  hills  were  blue, 

There  was  a  brook  that  sang  so  clear, 
I  needs  must  answer,  too! 

There  was  a  little  upland  road 
That  dipped  into  a  hollow, 

Where  all  the  maples  were  a-flame, 
And  so  I  needs  must  follow: 

And  follow,  follow,  till  the  dusk 
Had  made  the  near  hills  far! 

And  answer,  answer,  till  the  brook 
Sang  to  a  silver  star! 


THE  MOUNTAIN 

ASCENT 

There  was  a  brawling  brook  to  gossip  cheer, 
When  first  the  hill-path  found  the  woods  and 

lead 

Through  cool  green  glooms.     The  branches  over- 
head 
Touched   friendly  hands,   and   once  a   thrush 

sang  near, 

Then  sudden  stillness  and  the  way  climbed  sheer 
Up  breathless  stretches,  through  a  shadowed 

space, 
When  hemlocks  whispered,  and  then,  face  to 

face, 
I  stood  with  the  last  peak,  far  off  and  clear. 

It  flung  a  splendid  challenge  to  the  breeze, 
I  pressed  on,  strong  and  eager,  up  the  steep, 
Behind  me  lay  the  forests  hushed  with  sleep — 
Above  me  in  its  granite  majesty, 
Sphinx-like  the  peak  thro'  silent  centuries 
Met  the  eternal  question  of  the  sky. 


SUMMIT 

Victor  at  last — throned  on  the  cragged  height — 
I  scan  the  green  steeps  of  the  mountain  side 
Where  late  I  toiled.     The  forest  lands  stretch 
wide, 

And  in  deep  valleys  farms  gleam  faint  and  white. 

Vistas  of  distance  break  upon  my  sight, 

The  peopled  plain  creeps  to  the  sky's  blue  rim 
Where  far  peaks  gather — substanceless  and  dim 

As  half-remembered  dreams  by  noontime  light. 
Between  two  silences  my  soul  floats  still 

As  any  white  cloud  in  this  sunny  air. 

No  sound  of  living  breaks  upon  my  ear, 
No  strain  of  thought — no  restless  human  will — 
Only  the  virgin  quiet,  everywhere — 

Earth  never  seemed  so  far,  or  Heaven  so  near. 


33 


DARK 

The  shadow  falls  from  Time's  slow-passing  wing — 

The  color  burns  to  ashes  in  the  west; 

The  last  light  fades  along  the  darkened  crest, 
And  night  takes  still  possession,  like  a  King. 

In  the  near  fields  of  sky  are  blossoming 
The  white  stars  in  a  shining  multitude; 
It  seems  my  hand  might  pluck  them,  if  it  would — 

All  flower-like  in  their  close  companioning. 

The  valleys  fade  in  dark — the  woods  recede; 
A  swift  wind,  fresh  from  space,  blows  keen  and 
cold: 

In  the  awed  silence  of  this  dim  high  place 
One  keeping  vigil  might  not  fear,  indeed, 
If  it  befell  him  as  that  man  of  old, 
Who  in  the  mountain  met  God,  face  to  face. 

Franconia 
September^ 


34 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  CANOE 

Dip!     Dip! 

And  I  thrill  with  the  start — 

For  the  ripples  run  and  the  waters  part 

At  the  song  the  paddle  sings. 

Drip!     Drip! 
And  lo,  it  brings 

The  word  of  a  sweet  command  to  me 
And  leaping  to  answer  it — I  am  free! 

Water-weeds  weaving  in  vain  to  stay  me. 

Fain,  fain 

Are  the  reeds  arrayed  at  my  prow  to  delay  me — 

Vain,  vain, 

They  cast  their  lure  and  they  bid  me  bide; 

But  the  paddle  swinging  along  my  side — 

Dip!     Dip! 

Hath  a  dearer  bribe  then  the  still  things  know, 

And  I  go,  I  go! 

Lo,  I  am  come  of  a  wilding  birth — 

The  Brown  God's  cunning  my  mother  made, 

In  the  days  of  the  younger  earth. 

He  wrought  her  stanch  in  sinew  and  thong, 

Making  her  slender  and  supple  and  strong 

And  lithe  as  his  knife's  own  blade. 

He  garnished  her  bravely,  without  and  within, 

Breathed  into  her  being  the  soul  of  desire, 

To  follow  the  wake  of  the  mad  marsh-fire, 

Thistle-drift's  sister  and  Will-o'-the  Wisp's  kin. 


35 


Out  on  the  trail  that  the  free  things  know, 

I  go!     I  go! 

On  the  airy  quest  that  is  never  won; 
And  tempting  me,  daring  me,  luring  me  on, 
The  iris  wings  of  the  dragon  fly — 
Till  the  day  is  done  and  the  last  lights  die. 

Glide!    Glide! 

Across  the  calm  of  the  evening  tide 
When  the  first  white  stars  begin. 

Creep!     Creep! 

Where  the  lilies  sleep — 

Stars  in  a  sky  as  soft,  as  deep — 

The  paddle  singing  me  in. 

Hush!     Hush! 

For  the  tall  reeds  brush 

My  side  as  though  they  love  me. 

Rest!     Rest! 

On  the  inlet's  breast 

With  the  roof  of  the  leaves  above  me. 


IN  THE  HIGHLANDS 

The  Garry  to  the  Tummel  flows, 

And  Tummel  seeks  the  sea, 
And  under  boughs  of  beech  and  pine 

The  wild  white  waters  sing  and  shine, 
And  call  and  call  to  me. 

Oh,  banks  bestarred  with  primroses! 

Oh,  woodland  whisperings! 
High  in  the  blue  I  catch  the  gleam 

Half  guessed,  half  seen,  and  all  a  dream- 
Of  drifting  sea  birds'  wings. 

Here  in  the  hills  with  loch  and  ben 

Comes  the  old  call  to  me, 
Of  endless  spaces  and  the  quest 

That  will  not  let  me  stay  or  rest 
But  lures  my  heart  to  sea. 


37 


UPLAND  ACRES 

Bleak  in  the  dusk  I  see  them  lie, 
The  little  stony  fields  swept  bare 

Qf  their  scant  harvest — And  the  sky 
Close  bent  above  them,  as  aware. 

So  pitiful  their  precious  store! 

So  meager,  yet  so  dear  appears 
Each  careful  furrow  tilled  no  more. 

It  seems  almost  a  thing  for  tears. 

For  here  such  patient  toil  has  bent 
And  here  has  centred  faith  and  prayer 

And  here  has  Hope  its  radiance  spent, 
And  Fear  has  watched  here  and  Despair. 

So  barren  and  so  rock  beset! 

Mocked  by  the  bay  and  cedar  trees : 
Sterile  and  worthless — yet,  ah  yet — 

God  of  all  harvests,  think  on  these. 

And  for  the  sake  of  toil  and  prayer, 
Of  thy  rich  store  no  gift  withhold, 

Till  unguessed  glories  make  them  fair, 
These  weary  acres,  gray  and  old. 


THE  RAIN 

Long  waited  for,  deferred,  despaired — 

At  last — the  rain! 
A  silver  silence  on  the  hill, 

Along  the  lane, 

The  parched  sward,  like  a  thirsty  child, 

Today  holds  up 
Its  grateful,  needy  lips, 

As  to  a  cup. 

The  dripping  boughs  are  weighted  down- 

The  birds  are  still; 
The  garden  things  bow  low  to  take 

Its  quiet  will. 

The  little  street  has  hushed  its  life: 

The  winds  scarce  dare 
To  stir  this  peace  that  falls  as  soft, 

As  answered  prayer! 


39 


THE   LOST  TRAIL 

Green  woodland  pity  heals  the  ancient  scar; 

Spring    after    spring,    through    still    unresting 

years, 
In  little  saplings  and  the  tufted  pine, 

The  old  trail  disappears. 

Forbidden  vine  and  fern-brake  come  once  more; 

Brown   leaves  have  hid   the   secret  deep   and 

well; 
Only  the  scattered  blaze-marks,  blurred  and  dim, 

A  fading  message  tell. 

One  coming  here  might  seek  for  it  in  vain; 

There  is  no  sign  above  the  guarded  gate 
To  point  the  path,  to  where  the  still  wood  keeps 

Its  heart  inviolate. 

The  old  path  fades,  forgotten;  only  guessed, 
And  scarcely  found  and  once  more  lost  again. 

No  record  serves  to  show  the  long-healed  wound 
Of  havoc  and  of  pain. 

God  send  all  trails  forgetfulness  as  this! 

Such  healing  pity  of  the  kindly  years, 
That  no  swift-footed  memory  may  find 

Lost  places  of  old  tears! 


40 


SHADOW  TIME 

The  brown  arms  rest  at  the  journey's  end; 

The  ripples  eddy  and  fade  and  die; 
The  inlet's  dark  where  the  birches  bend, 

And  the  lily-squadrons  at  anchor  lie. 

The  woods  are  loud  with  the  coming  night; 

A  thousand  choirs  sing  even-song; 
And  high  in  the  west — Oh,  high  and  white! 

The  first  star  beacons  the  shining  throng. 

This  is  the  chosen  and  perfect  hour, 

When  the  dim  trail  ends  at  the  dusky  shore; 

And  leads  through  the  fern  and  the  cardinal 

flower, 
To  a  waiting  light  and  open  door. 


ROADSIDE   REST 

Such  quiet  sleep  has  come  to  them! 

The  Springs  and  Autumns  pass, 
Nor  do  they  know  if  it  be  snow 

Or  daisies  in  the  grass. 

All  day  the  birches  bend  to  hear 

The  river's  undertone; 
Across  the  hush  a  fluting  thrush 

Sings  evensong  alone. 

But  down  their  dream  there  drifts  no  sound, 

The  winds  may  sob  and  stir: 
On  the  still  breast  of  Peace  they  rest, 
'    And  they  are  glad  of  her. 

They  ask  not  any  gift — they  mind 

Not  any  foot  that  fares; 
Unheededly  life  passes  by, 

Such  quiet  sleep  is  theirs. 


42 


THE   SCENT  O'  PINE 

Across  the  drowsing  noon,  like  some  soft  spell, 
Than  any  woodbreath,  sweeter  and  more  fine, 

Elusive,  poignant  and  ineffable 
The  scent  o'  Pine. 

As  one  who  opening  a  casket  laid 

Safe  from  all  curious  eyes,  too  dear  to  see, 

And  finds  old  letters  that  the  years  have  made 
A  Memory — 

And  wrought  of  ancient  sweetness,  hope  and  fears, 
From  out  the  faded  pages,  there  arise 

Fragrances,  that  call  forgotten  tears 
Back  to  the  eyes. 

So  now  to  one  returning  to  this  hill 

Guarded  by  sun  and  silence  as  a  shrine, 

What  long  forgotten  presence  mingles  still 
With  scent  o'  Pine! 


43 


THE  THRUSH 

I  hear  him  when  the  sunlight  pales 
And  shadows  on  the  grass  grow  long — 

Leaf-hid,  insistent,  lyrical: 
The  singer  of  one  song 

That  will  not  quite  reveal  his  heart, 
Nor  all  attain  the  magic  word — 

Nor  capture  in  one  golden  note 
The  rapture  of  the  bird. 

Yet  how  the  silence  thrills  to  hear ! 

The   leaves   hang  breathless   lest   there 

fall 
Wasted,  one  halting  liquid  strain, 

One  yearning  interval. 

Again  and  yet  again — until 

The  dark  enshrines  the  haunted  place; 
And  from  the  shadowy  skies  looks  down 

A  star's  adoring  face! 


44 


IN  THE  ARENA 

Yes!  with  the  dust  in  my  throat!     Yes!  with  the 

roar  in  my  ears ! 
Of  the  Victor's  tumult  of  praise — the  mingled 

hisses  and  cheers! 
While  the  faces  grow  dim  in  a  haze.    Is  it  blood? 

Is  it  tears? 

And  over  me,  in  a  cloud — like   visible,  sentient 

things, 

A-flock  o'er  the  places  where  Death,  their  car- 
rion victim  flings — 

Defeat  and  Despair  hover  near,  on  terrible  wait- 
ing wings! 

They  shall  not  have  me!     Not  yet!     For  the  will 

makes  its  desperate  claim; 
(O  weakness  grow  strong!     O  pain  be  a  sword! 

Be  a  wakening  flame 
And  burn  the  last  dross  of  denial  in  fires  of  shame!) 

Now — once   again!     Up!     Up!     Not  yet  is   the 

uttermost  end! 
Not  till  Strength  makes  its  ultimate  cast — its 

last  rally  send! 
You  have  taken  your  toll  of  the  Flesh;  here's  Soul 

yet  to  conquer,  my  friend! 


45 


A  STREET   CRY 

Oh,  now  the  heavenly  daffodils 
Their  yellow  lamps  have  lit, 

And  vendors  take  the  golden  spoil, 
The  streets  are  bright  with  it. 

And  baskets  brimmed  as  they  can  hold 
Are  precious  with  the  April  gold. 

Here's  daffodils!     I  hear  them  cry 

Along  the  noisy  way; 
There's  winter  in  the  air  and  sky, 

The  city  streets  are  gray, 
But  like  a  hope  and  prophecy 

The  yellow  flowers  flame  for  me. 

Here's  daffodils!  oh,  somewhere  now 
The  earliest  dreams  awake: 

Dim  stirrings  vex  the  sleeping  bough 
For  unborn  April's  sake — 

And  gardens  patient  in  the  snow 
A  thrill  of  tender  promise  know. 

And  weary  folk  that  waited  long 

Look  up  and  hope  again, 
In  the  dumb  spaces  like  a  song 

The  old  cry  echoes  plain. 
New  wine  the  empty  chalice  fills 

And  for  a  sign — here's  daffodils! 


THE  GLEAM 

Spring  light  over  the  square — 
Yet  the  bravest  boughs  are  bare 

And  the  bleak  winds  pass 
Over  the  starveling  grass. 

Spring  light — tender  and  blue 

As  April  ever  knew, 
Making  the  grim  and  dull 

All  new  and  beautiful! 

Till  the  pallid  loungers  seem 
Caught  in  a  sudden  dream, 

And  the  sodden  faces  share 
In  something  brave  and  fair! 

Listen  and  you  will  hear 
Triumphant,  mellow-clear, 

A  note  like  a  bugle's  call 
In  the  roaring's  interval. 

A  street  tune!  wistful  and  gay 
That  the  gutter  organs  play — 

And  carol  weary  and  wise 
The  city's  song  to  the  skies! 


47 


COME   BUY! 
"HERE'S  FLOWERS  FOR  YOU"  PERDITA 

The  flower-faces  bend  ^^ove  the  flowers 

That  make  the  long  low  loft  so  strangely  gay. 
Undying  beauty — mocking  the  brief  stay 

Of  theirs  who  toil  there  thro'  the  weary  hours! 
Outside,  all  April,  and  the  sun  and  showers, 

The  keen  wind  blowing  freshly  from  the  bay: 
Here  tired  eyes  scarce  pause  to  mark  the  day; 

And  tired  hands  contend  against  dim  powers. 
O  Perdita!     In  all  thy  garland  set 

Are  blossoms  sad  as  these  that  poverty 
Weaves  in  its  need  to  make  some  other  fair? 

Who  reck  not  in  each  rose  and  violet 
The  weary  eyes  that  tears  made  dim  to  see, 

The  tired  hands  that  grappled  with  despair. 


EVEN-SONGS 


The  river  flows  a  golden  tide 

Up  to  a  purple  shore, 
The  banners  of  the  smoke  drift  wide 

Across  the  open  door 
That  God  has  set  beyond  the  west 

And  made  a  starry  way, 
To  lead  to  welcome  and  to  rest 

Another  pilgrim  day. 

II 

Down  to  the  night  and  the  sea 

The  slow  sails  drift  and  go, 
Out  of  a  west  spread  goldenly 

Over  the  purple  lands — 
Past  where  the  city  stands, 

And  the  dark  begins  to  be, 
And  the  lights  flare  row  on  row, 

The  slow  sails  drift  to  the  sea. 

This  is  the  hope  of  the  day! 

The  promise  darkens  and  dies 
And  the  trail  of  a  shadowy  way 

Leads  from  the  dusky  shore: 
Irrevocable  evermore, 

That  will  not  stop  or  stay, 
Drifts  to  the  ruined  skies 

The  slow  winged  hope  of  the  day. 


49 


CAPTIVES 

At  every  street-end  is  the  glint  of  the  sea; 

The  last  tall  houses  open  like  a  door, 

And  space  and  light  are  waiting  evermore 

Just  at  the  street-end.   Oh,  how  mockingly 

Flashes  the  vision  of  that  liberty 

On  the  sick  eyes  of  men  held  prisoner 

By  endless  walls  and  iron  streets  a-roar, 

Fain  for  the  sea  way  fetterless  and  free! 

Out  of  the  dusk  that  darkens  half  their  day 

They  turn,  for  comfort,  to  that  square  of  light, 

The  wistful  eyes  that  watch  through  captive  bars 

The  gleam  of  wings,  the  far-off  azure  bay, 

Or  some  great  ship  her  full  sails  crowding  white 

And  skies  entangled  in  a  net  of  spars. 


RENCONTRE 

Sometimes  in  these  alien  streets, 
In  this  strange  time  and  place, 
Almost  I  stop  to  speak  to  you — 
Thinking  I  see  your  face; 

Your  Very-Self,  your  eyes, 
Your  poised  and  perfect  head; 
Almost  I  start  and  say  your  name — 
Forgetting  you  are  dead. 


FOG  IN  THE  CITY 

Till  now  the  houses  in  my  street 
Showed  me  a  dear  accustomed  grace 
Of  homely  quiet  that  made  kind, 
Each  worn  familiar  face. 

But  now,  blown  in  from  empty  miles, 
Comes  this  white  magic  from  the  sea 
To  cast  a  spell  across  the  noon 
And  win  my  own  away  from  me — 

To  dim  my  near  and  friendly  sky, 
To  make  the  honest  daylight  pale, 
To  weave  across  my  quiet  ways 
A  silence  and  a  veil. 


STREET  SONG 

The  thought  of  you  like  music 
Sang  in  my  heart  all  day; 
It  wrapped  me  close  as  sunshine 
Through  many  a  dusty  way ; 

It  folded  me  in  quietness 
Through  all  the  fret  and  jar; 
It  led  me  to  the  edge  of  dusk 
And  laughed  on  me—a  star. 


DECORATION   DAY 

All  down  the  dull  unheeding  street 

The  marching  men  went  by — 
The  banners  drifted  in  the  wind, 

The  bugle's  silver  cry 
Sang  clear,  sang  high  for  triumphing, 

Sang  soft  as  tho'  for  tears: 
The  tunes  that  led  the  marching  men 

To  battles  of  old  years. 

Far  down  the  gray,  unlistening  street 

It  faded  and  was  done; 
Oh,  bugles,  crying  from  the  heights, 

Of  starry  victories  won, — 
There  follows  you  in  shadowy  hosts, 

Unreckoned  and  denied — 
The  legions  of  the  love  that  wept, 

The  ranks  of  them  that  died! 


THE   SEA  WIND 

Winnow  me  through  with  thy  keen  blown  breath, 

Wind  with  the  tang  of  the  sea! 
Speed  through  the  closing  gates  of  the  day, 

Find  me  and  fold  me;  have  thy  way 
And  take  thy  will  of  me! 

Use  my  soul  as  you  used  the  sky — 

Dull  sky  of  this  sullen  day! 
Clear  its  doubt  as  you  sped  its  wrack 

Of  storm  cloud  bringing  its  splendor  back, 
Giving  it  gold  for  gray! 

Bring  me  word  of  the  moving  ships, 

Halyards  and  straining  spars; 
Come  to  me  clean  from  the  sea's  wide  breast, 

While  the  last  lights  die  in  the  yellow  west 
Under  the  first  white  stars! 

Batter  the  closed  doors  of  my  heart 

And  set  my  spirit  free! 
For  I  stifle  here  in  this  crowded  place, 

Sick  for  the  tenantless  fields  of  space, 
Wind  with  the  tang  of  the  sea! 


TREES   IN  THE   PARK 

They  are  not  like  their  sisters  of  the  wood, 

These  city-trees, 
For  they  have  lost  their  innocence 

Being  too  close  to  life. 
They  wear  their  verdure  like  a  veil, 

That  hides  but  to  reveal: 
Their  shadow  has  a  secret  and  a  shame — 
Their  whisper  is  a  summons  and  a  lure: 
For  they  have  learned  they  have  a  price, 

And  that  their  beauty  is  desirable — 
But  they  must  sing  and  whisper, 

Yield,  withhold; 
They  are  grown  wise  and  weary  since  they  came, 

These  sad,  lost  sisters  of  the  wood! 


PARACLETE 

With  the  first  twilight  comes  the  Comforter; 

Above  the  city  smoke,  clear  set  and  plain, 
For  every  eye  to  share  and  take  again 

The  healing  benison  that  comes  with  her. 
Low,  low  and  near,  a  shining  thurifer 

Before  the  bright  high  altar  of  the  west, 
In  some  dim  rite;  a  worship  manifest 

As  votive  gold  and  frankincense  and  myrrh. 

Now  Weariness,  look  up  and  lift  your  heart! 

Toil  for  a  little  rest  the  tired  hands, 
And  lonely  Grief  be  comforted  a  space. 

Above  gaunt  towns,  o'er  torn  and  restless  lands 
The  quiet  falls,  the  last  dim  curtains  part — 

A  white  star  burns  before  a  watching  Face! 


54 


ALLE  SEELEN 

It  is  old  love  that  calls  to  you — Oh,  hark! 

Turn  from  the  lights  and  laughter  to  the  pane, 
Where  the  wet  ivies  glisten  in  the  rain 

And  the  low  wind  cries  houseless  in  the  dark — 

And  if  there  come  there  for  a  little  space 
The  pulse  of  wings  bewildered  in  the  night, 

Oh,  understand!     Old  love  strains  to  the  light 
Craving  the  pity  of  your  heedless  face! 

This  night  is  ours  alone,  in  all  the  year — 

Dead  loves,  dead  hopes,  all  buried  futile  things — 

Be  merciful  to  all  the  beating  wings! 

They  have  so  brief  an  hour — O  lost  and  dear! 


55 


EROICA 

You  that  heard  the  voice  of  him  manfully  out- 
ringing, 
Rallying  for  lost  causes  the  broken  ranks  of 

right- 
Praise  the  valiant  faith  of  him,  who  led  men  with 

his  singing, 

Down  the  shadowy  slope  of  fear  to  outposts  of 
the  night. 

You  that  knew  the  word  of  him — wise  or  stern  or 

tender, 
That  grudged  no  man  his  honor — that  never 

softened  blame. 

That  called  a  last  endeavor  in  the  face  of  full  sur- 
render; 

Let  it  be  of  these  you  sing  who  come  to  crown 
his  name. 

You  that  saw  the  brain  of  him — swift  for  rede  and 

reckoning, 
That  read  with  clear-eyed  vision   the  councils 

of  the  past. 
Yet  blazed  thro'  unknown  wilderness  trails  of  the 

future's  beckoning; 

Remember  all  his  wisdom  and  honor  him  at 
last. 

But  I  that  heard  the  voice  of  him — knew  the  word 

and  brain  of  him, 

I  that  stand  today  to  praise  with  all  the  honor- 
ing lands, 
Bring  my  gift  of  tears  to  him — just  for  the  human 

pain  of  him — 

Just  for  the  gentle  heart  of  him — and  for  the 
kindly  hands. 


KNIGHTED 

Only  a  word — but  I  knew! 

Merely  a  touch — but  I  grew 
Healed  and  whole  and  blest, 

Strong  for  the  Quest! 

Only  a  word — but  I  went 

Into  my  banishment, 
Singing  your  name  and  glad — 

New  Galahad! 

And  you — did  you  know  or  guess 
How  your  face  leaned  to  bless! 

How  of  your  faith  was  made 
God's  accolade! 


57 


THE   SECRET  CHILDREN 

W%  are  done  with  pity — we  are  done  with  grief — 
All  the  rains  are  ended,  all  the  winds  are  laid, 

To  the  quiet  country  of  the  unfailing  leaf, 
We  have  come  together  glad  and  unafraid. 

Here  we  have  for  music  all  the  songs  we  sung — 
Lost,    forgotten    singing    of    passing    lips    and 

hands — 
Broken  echoes  of  the  joy  we  knew  when  we  were 

young 
Gladden  us  forever  in  unshadowed  lands. 

Never  more  to  fright  us — never  more  to  chill — 
Change  is  like  the  crumbling  wave  ebbing  back 
to  sea: 

Time  is  but  a  little  cloud  that  fades  above  the  hill 
In  the  wide  blue  morning  of  eternity. 

We  have  made  a  garland  of  the  tears  we  wept, 
We  have  wrought  our  sorrows  in  a  crown  of 

flowers, 
And  our  secret  jewel  is  the  joy  we  kept 

Safe  throughout  the  wrecking  years  and  the 
traitor  hours. 

Call  us  not  at  morning  time  or  at  dusk  of  day, 
Seek  us  not  by  croft  or  dale — or  on  moor  or 

linn; 
We  have  won   the  Fairy  Path,  where  primroses 

lay, 

We  have  found  the  secret  door  and  have  entered 
in! 


DAY'S   END 

Beyond  the  clamor  of  the  day's  unrest, 

Desires  unsatisfied  and  faltering  aim, 
Doubts,  hesitations,  fearfulness  and  blame, 

The  feeble  answer  to  the  Great  Behest, 
Temptings  acknowledged,  failings  unconfessed, 

The  petty  strife  masked  by  a  braver  name, 
The  jealousies  that  brought  no  saving  shame, 

There  shall  be  silence  and  a  darkening  west. 
Haply  the  last  light  of  the  passing  day 

Will  touch  them  with  its  pity  ere  it  goes 
To  some  new  morning — shadowless  and  far — 

Haply  an  instant  all  the  troubled  gray 
Will  gleam  with  gold,  will  tremble  into  rose, 

And  over  them  flame  white  a  steadfast  star! 


59 


PIPES  OF  PAN 

He  laid  his  lips  to  a  river  reed! 

If  you  listened  you  might  hear. 
The  song  the  bright  brown  water  sings 

In  the  Springtime  of  the  year. 

He  laid  his  lips  to  a  river  reed! 

If  you  listened  you  might  hark, 
The  sound  of  the  sheep-flocks  folded  safe 

In  the  early  April  dark. 

He  laid  his  lips  to  a  river  reed! 

And  wistfully  he  blew, 
And  lo,  Love  sang  from  out  old  years 

A  lost  sweet  tune  you  knew — 

It  seemed  the  stars  came  out  to  hear! 

— So  clear  he  piped  and  wild — 
And  it  seemed  the  sleeping  dead  could  hear, 

And  hearing  must  have  smiled! 

So  sweet  it  was,  so  sad  it  was, 

So  brave  it  was  and  clear, 
When  the  young  Pan  piped  on  a  river  reed, 

In  the  Springtime  of  the  year. 


60 


AN  OLD   SONG 

When  I  was  a  young  lad, 

And  that  is  long  ago, 
I  thought  that  Luck  loved  every  man, 

And  time  his  only  foe, 
And  love  was  like  a  hawthorn  bush 

That  blossomed  every  May, 
And  one  had  but  to  choose  his  flower, 

For  that's  the  young  lad's  way. 

Oh,  youth's  a  thriftless  squanderer, 

It's  easy  come  and  spent: 
And  heavy  is  the  going  now 

Where  once  the  light  foot  went. 
The  hawthorn  bush  puts  on  its  white, 

The  throstle  whistles  clear, 
But  Spring  comes  once  for  every  man, 

Just  once  in  all  the  year. 


61 


THE  HAPPY  SPIRIT 

The  sorrows  that  I  had  how  shall  you  know? 

No  wound  I  keep — no  scar  is  mine  to  show, 
Only  I  wear  thro'  God's  unreckoned  hours 

A  crown  of  flowers  1 

How  shall  I  witness  all  the  perils  passed, 

Leagued   terrors   down   a  journey   dim   and 
vast? 

This  shining  garment  white  as  driven  flame, 
Mine  since  I  came — 

What  record  given  of  the  great  Release 
And  the  still  waters  of  the  wells  of  peace? 

Deeper  than  speech  the  wordless  answer  lies — 
Look  in  my  eyes ! 

THE   BLUE  DIVIDE 

A  cloud  in  the  East  and  a  cloud  in  the  West; 

And  all  day  long  the  blue  divide 
Of  the  sundering  sky  that  lies  between, 

Unsailed  and  wide. 

All  day  long  from  the  East,  from  the  West, 
Over  spaces  that  kept  them  twain 

A  white  cloud  called  to  a  far-off  cloud, 
And  heard  again! 

The  East  is  far  as  the  West  is  far; 

But  look! — when  the  day  is  done — 
In  the  holy  place  of  the  earliest  star, 

The  clouds  are  one! 


62 


TO-MORROW 

To-morrow — when  the  dream  comes  true, 
When  care  is  done  and  grief's  away, 

To-morrow — when  I  share  with  you 
The  joy  withheld  from  us  to-day! 

To-morrow — when  the  bitter  word 

Forgiveness  has  made  sweet  once  morel 

To-morrow — when  the  sea-blown  bird 
Finds  the  safe  shelter  of  the  shore! 

To-morrow — when  the  wrong  is  right, 
Nor  coward  fears  the  hope  betray! 

To-morrow — hush!  the  East  is  white 
With  God's  unalterable  to-day! 

THE  WEAVER 

I  sit  apart  in  shadow — yet  my  hands 
Are  busy  with  the  shuttle's  come  and  go, 

And  on  my  loom — the  motley  figures  grow 
Out  of  the  color  of  the  woven  strands: 

I  have  had  rumor  of  all  times  and  lands — 
Strange  faces  and  far  cities  I  do  know, 

Old  loves,  forgotten  warfares — soon  or  slow 
Their    image    haunts    the    changing    pattern's 
bands! 

Sable  and  azure — crimson,  gold  and  rose — 
The  restless  shuttle  waits  the  fateful  thread, 

The  echoed  pageant  claims  its  history- 
Today's  report  or  yesteryear's — who  knows? 

Mine  is  the  morrow,  mine  the  quick  and  dead, 
Mine  the  last  secret  of  Eternity.    • 


POSTSCRIPT 

Now  I  have  brought  you  my  dreams, 

And  spread  them  before  your  jeet\ 
Will  they  be  to  you  only 

As  blown  leaves, 
Russet  and  red 

For  you  to  tread  on 
And  pass  by? 

My  dreams! 
That  are  tissue  of  gold 

Beaten  thin 
And  scarlet  with  living  flame. 


M191984 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


